


Waiting for Blackwall (Alternate Ending)

by MundaneExMiscellanea



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 02:43:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5147339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MundaneExMiscellanea/pseuds/MundaneExMiscellanea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is an alternate ending for "Waiting for Blackwall", in which Cadash awaits news of Blackwall's Joining, having sentenced him to join the Wardens once Corypheus is defeated. If you've read the previous version, the changes begin in the fourth scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting for Blackwall (Alternate Ending)

    It was the smell that kept her coming back. The Inquisitor turned the pages of the enormous volume on her lap without really seeing the words. Cadash hadn’t been much of a reader before coming to Skyhold, but since then she had read voraciously: the history of the Blights, the theater traditions of Orlais, studies of the Fade, even a book on the Carta that was surprisingly insightful despite being written by an enormously credulous human. Knowledge made her a more effective leader, she thought, allowing her to surprise people who looked down at her face, with its tattoos and deep scars, and expected an illiterate, dirt-worshipping dwarven thug. But right now, all she craved was the smell of vellum and aging parchment. It was horrible and yet somehow perfect, especially as a complement to the view of the Frostback Mountains from the window, brilliant with snow and sunlight.

    “Hel-lo, I do believe you’ve taken my chair.” Cadash turned from the window, blinking against the relative gloom. Dorian leaned against a shelf, regarding her with that knowing, half-mocking smile with which, as far as she could tell, he started every conversation. “And you’ve stolen it to read...A Dialectical Geography of the Imperium? Really? Have my charm and wit inspired you to learn only the most impenetrable metaphysical truths about my homeland?”

    “It wasn’t your charms, strictly speaking,” Cadash said. “It was that fancy hat you’ve been sporting lately.”

    “That hat was a gift from the Iron Bull,” Dorian said, straightening with every appearance of wounded dignity. “I will not have its abject hideousness commented upon by scabby cutthroats who drink from bottles they find discarded on every battlefield.”

    “That was one time!”

    “That was eleven times, and those are only the times I personally observed. Maker knows how many filth-encrusted bottles you’ve pilfered with Bull or that imp Sera.” He leaned forward as if sniffing her breath. “Is that what happened? You drank some flammable toxin you found in a swamp, and have gone entirely blind? Did you mistake this book for a Tethras? Or some Orlesian pornography?”

    “I did try to borrow Swords & Shields from Cassandra, but she thought I was making fun of her.”

    “That was probably a mercy. Pure trash, that. Don’t know how she reads it, really. Or how Varric admits to writing it.”

    Cadash nodded and looked down at her book. She idly turned a page.

    “Ah,” Dorian said softly, after a silence. “Shall I leave you alone?”

    She winced at the phrasing, glancing out at the snow-capped mountains that separated Skyhold from the world. She closed the book.

    “No,” she said. “Please rescue me. My legs have fallen asleep.”

    “Well, we can’t have that,” Dorian said. “Up we go, Inquisitor.”

    As they passed through the empty room at the bottom of the stairs, Cadash paused, looking at the unfinished final panel of Solas’s great mural. So much empty space.

    “Have you considered it, Des?” Dorian said from the doorway.

    “Considered what?”

    “Learning Tevinter! Seeing the Imperium for yourself! Surely someone among the Magisterium has extended an invitation.” Dorian opened the door to the main hall for her and waited.

    “No, I hadn’t,” Cadash said. She nodded to some visiting Nevarran dignitaries waiting outside Josephine’s office. “I mean, I’ve been invited, but, uh, I’ve never been particularly gifted with languages. Just hitting things. And...threatening to hit things.”

    “Come, come, don’t be modest,” Dorian said. “I was with you at Halam’shiral. I saw you charm the court and trade barbs with the architect of the most splendid conspiracy Orlais has seen in a century, all while gracefully performing a ballroom dance made for people almost twice your height. You’re hardly the uncouth legbreaker you claim to have been.”

    Cadash grunted.

    “See? Such wit! Thus was the might of old Tevinter cast down,” Dorian said, with a short laugh. “Well, that and a few jars of angry bees. Where did Sera get so many bees?”

    “And wasps,” Cadash said.

    “Who could forget the wasps? I had welts for weeks. The indignity of it.” He opened a door just off the courtyard. The stairs led down.

    “Where are we going?” Cadash asked.

    “To see an old friend,” Dorian said. The sound of rushing water grew louder as they descended.

    The guard nodded to Dorian with the familiarity of frequent acquaintance, then leapt out of her seat when she saw who his companion was.

    “Apologies, Worship,” she said, executing the crispest salute Cadash had seen yet. “I didn’t see you there.”

    “It’s fine,” Cadash said. “Please don’t call me ‘worship’.”

    “Yes, Inquisitor. Thank you, Inquisitor.”

    “How’s the old man doing today, Graciela?” Dorian asked.

    “Same as always, sir. I gave him the, uh, books you sent from the library,” the guard said, glancing at Cadash.

    “Splendid. I can’t wait to hear what he thought of them,” Dorian said. “May we go in?”

    “Of course, sir. Inquisitor,” the guard said, rushing to unlock the door to the central dungeon.

    If it weren’t a dungeon, Cadash thought, it would almost be relaxing, the waterfall spilling below, sunlight pouring in through the enormous gap in the wall.

    At that particular moment, few prisoners remained in residence, almost all of her other surviving enemies having been pressed into one service or another, or sent away to other prisons, other deaths. Cadash looked down at the water cascading through hole in the cliff face, then followed Dorian to the last occupied cell on the left.

    Former Magister Alexius sat against a wall, reading a book. Other volumes sat stacked beside him. He looked up as they approached.

    “Ah, Dorian,” he said. Cadash was startled by the quavering in his voice. “And Inquisitor. I have not seen you in some time.”

    “I’ve been busy. Your late boss left quite a mess,” Cadash said. “Also, I kind of forgot you were down here.”

    Alexius nodded, eyes downcast. The sight of the magister conjured up memories Cadash had never quite banished, memories of deaths that never happened, but that did happen, to people she knew in a world that no longer existed. Dorian hadn’t been able to find much reading material on Venatori time magic, and what he did find was esoteric and beyond her grasp. Not being able to understand what had happened made it even more disturbing. She frowned at the imprisoned mage.

    “How are you finding the reading, Alexius? Anything interesting?” Dorian asked, leaning against the bars.

    “Quite,” Alexius said. He closed his book, speaking as he slowly rose to his feet. “Magister Arranea’s writing is atrociously vague, but her theories on travel in the Fade are quite interesting.”

    “The Fade?” Cadash said. She looked at Dorian incredulously. “You’ve been giving him books on magic?”

    “Just ideas to occupy the mind.” Dorian looked through the bars with an unreadable expression. “Ghost stories, Tevinter romances, plus speculative tracts on esoteric subjects.”

    “I could hardly harm the mighty Inquisition with books, Lady Cadash.” The magister’s words seemed mocking, but she couldn’t find a note of bitterness in his voice. Just fatigue. And resignation.

    “We’ll let you get back to your reading, Alexius,” Dorian said. “The Inquisitor and I have something to discuss.”

    “Farewell, Dorian. Inquisitor.”

    Cadash let the silence linger until they were halfway up the second flight of stairs.

    “What are we discussing, exactly?” she said.

    “I received a letter this morning,” Dorian said. “One of my contacts in Minrathos. It was...good news.” He fell silent again.

    “And?” Cadash prompted.

    “I will be leaving the Inquisition,” Dorian said, quietly. “Within the week, I expect. I’ve been preparing for the last month.”

    “You’re going back to Tevinter,” Cadash said.

    “You’ve closed all the major rifts, routed the last significant groups of Venatori and Red Templars. You have the support of the College of Enchanters for any magical catastrophes that might arise,” Dorian said. He looked at her with shining eyes. “You don’t need me anymore. My country does.”

    They stepped out into the courtyard, the quiet of the dungeon replaced with the clatter of swords on shields, voices raised in command and encouragement. Two Chantry sisters stopped to bow, murmuring “Your Worship” as Cadash gestured dismissively.

    “I don’t think I would ever say I don’t need you,” Cadash said. “I wouldn’t even be here, if it weren’t for you. But you’re right,” she said, holding up a hand when he tried to speak. “Tevinter does need you. More than ever, maybe.” Cadash squinted up at her mage friend. “But I’ve known you wouldn’t be staying in Skyhold forever. There’s something else.”

    Cadash didn’t think she’d ever seen Dorian look so uncomfortable. Upset, angry, but not uncomfortable.

    “With your permission, with the Inquisition’s leave,” he said. He stopped, shook his head. “I would like to take Alexius with me. To Tevinter.”

    Cadash stared at him.

    “The loss of Felix has broken him, Des,” Dorian said, words tumbling out rapidly. “Surely you could see that. His associates in the Venatori have been killed or captured, some of them thanks to information he provided. He no longer cares about pushing the boundaries of magic or restoring the Imperium or power, but he still has such a mind, such knowledge. He is tired, and in his exhaustion he only cares about doing right by the memory of his son. And, perhaps, doing right by me. Let me use that. To help my country.”

    “He bent time in order to enslave the mage rebellion for Corypheus. We saw him torture and corrupt our friends, and blight Ferelden with red lyrium. We saw the future he would have created, and it was nothing but blood, and bodies, and demons falling out of the sky. And you want him released?”

    “Into my custody,” Dorian said. “Yes. Please.”

    Cadash ran both hands through her hair and rubbed her face.

    “How will he help you?” she asked. “I mean, if he’s as broken as you say, how can he help you change Tevinter for the better?”

    “I honestly don’t know,” Dorian said. “But if I can redeem someone as lost as Alexius, maybe there’s hope for saving my country.” He shrugged. “I have to try.”

    Cadash chewed her lip, then threw up her hands.

    “Shit,” she said. “I’m sending an escort with you, though. Just in case.”

    “Actually,” Dorian said, quietly. “Bull’s Chargers have volunteered for that honor.”

    “Oh,” Cadash said. She studied his face while he avoided her looking at her.  

    “Dorian,” she said, laughing. “Are you blushing?”

    “It’s your imagination,” he said. “I never blush. Never in my life.”

    “Whatever you say, Pavus,” she said. Her smile faded. “You will be staying a bit longer, though? You, and Bull, and Krem. I hoped...I was hoping…”

    “We’ll be here,” Dorian said. “When Blackwall returns from the Joining, we’ll be here.”

    Cadash sighed, and her smile returned. Together they skirted around the skirmishing recruits toward the tavern.

    “It means a great deal to me, you know,” Dorian said. “Having your support.”

    “Likewise,” Cadash said.

 

    The recruit had talent, but his lack of formal training was clear. Cadash could have floored him a half dozen times, but had only done so twice to underscore a particular point. Still, the elf had good instincts, using his longer reach to decent effect and not trying to take on her superior strength directly with his shield. Not after the first time, anyway.

    “It’s important to keep moving, to practice quickness,” Cadash said, for the benefit of those gathered around the ring. “Sometimes you will be fighting in uncertain terrain. Sometimes - often - you will be fighting an opponent larger and stronger than you are.”

    She swung and the recruit jumped back with admirable alacrity.

    “You might think you are the larger and stronger opponent. But there’s always someone larger. Always someone stronger.” She stalked forward as she spoke, padded mallet held low, then lunged. The recruit barely got his shield up in time. The pommel strike left him too staggered to counter attack, but Cadash backed away, letting him recover.

    “Mobility is more important than power. Speed, and the ability to think on your feet, are superior to strength.” She overhand swung and drove the recruit to his knees. “Although obviously strength helps.” Quiet laughter around the ring.

    The elf recruit stood, clearly frustrated. But as he met her gaze, he composed his expression into one of determination. Good. Cadash nodded.

    In her peripheral vision, she became aware of Cassandra, just outside the ring of recruits, waiting with her arms crossed. She held a letter in one hand.

    Pain exploded against the side of her head as the recruit clouted her with his wooden sword. Cadash went down seeing stars.

    “Oh Maker.” The recruit knelt beside her. “Inquisitor, I’m so sorry.”

    “And that,” Cadash said from the dirt, “is why you are all wearing helmets.” She didn’t feel like sitting up just yet, but Cassandra appeared over her, extending a hand.

    “It’s also how I got to look this pretty,” Cadash said as the Seeker hauled her upright. She wasn’t sure anyone but Cassandra heard her. Cassandra shook her head.  

    Cassandra picked up the padded mallet and tossed it to Sergeant Brosca. The recruit hovered uncertainly as the Inquisitor made her unsteady exit. She paused at the gate, straightened, and turned to look at him.

    “Westley, isn’t it?” The recruit nodded. “Solid, uh, hit, Westley. But try to avoid braining anyone in practice, okay?” Westley nodded.

    “Are you all right?” Cassandra said once they were a safe distance from the ring.

    “It’s fine. I’m fine.” Cadash shook off the Seeker’s grip, staggered a step, then steadied. “I’m fine.” She looked up at Cassandra, who still looked at her with anxiety. “Thank you. What’s the news?”

    “A letter from Varric’s contact in Val Royeaux,” Cassandra said. “As expected, several clerics are threatening to split from the Chantry over Leliana...Divine Victoria’s reforms. At least one Revered Mother has openly referred to her plans as heretical.”

    “Ah,” Cadash said. “Val Royeaux.”

    Cassandra’s eyes widened. “Oh,” she said. “You thought...I’m sorry. We have no news from Blackwall yet.” She shook her head. “That was thoughtless of me.”

    “Really, it’s fine,” Cadash said. “It’s good to be reminded that the rest of the world is still out there. Waiting to smack me in the head.”

    “Should I get the surgeon?”

    “Ancestors, no. She’ll put leeches on my face or something.” Cadash looked up at Cassandra’s pensive expression. “I assume there’s more news, beyond what we already expected.”

    Cassandra sighed. “Varric’s agent also notes several dissenters who have...adjusted their attitude, recently. Or gone silent altogether. They were not specific, but…”

    “Sister Nightingale,” Cadash said. “She said she was going to change things. No matter the cost.”

    “The agent indicated this would be their last report,” Cassandra said. “Val Royeaux is no longer safe.”

    Cadash shook her head. “I hope they get out of the city okay.”

    “I’m sure Varric is taking care of them,” Cassandra said. “He always does.”

    “We won’t be able to rely on his network forever,” Cadash said. “Any luck finding Briala?”

    “None. And her elves have all gone to ground, if they weren’t caught in Celene’s purge.”

    Cadash leaned against a fence. “I hate to think that we enabled that,” she said. “I’m sure it didn’t earn us any friends among the elves of Orlais.” She squinted. “Who else do we have? Ritts? Tanner?”

    “They are loyal. But they are specialists. Not masterminds.”

    “Hmm.” Cadash frowned at the puddles in the courtyard. They never seemed to dry up.

    “How are you feeling?” Cassandra asked.

    “Really, stop worrying,” Cadash said, rubbing her temple. “I’ve had worse.”

    “That is not what I was talking about.”

    Cadash’s frown deepened.

    “Desa, I am your friend,” Cassandra said. “Talk to me.”

    Cadash sighed. “You’ve heard that Dorian is leaving? With the Iron Bull?”

    Cassandra nodded. “Scout Harding asked permission to accompany them. At least to the Tevinter border.”

    Cadash laughed. “Are she and Krem still together? I honestly thought that was just a one night fling the night of the banquet.”

    “I do not believe she intends to leave the Inquisition, if that is your worry,” Cassandra said.

    “No, not at all,” Cadash said. “I’m just glad they’re happy.”

    She could almost feel Cassandra’s worried expression.

    “Varric’s every third thought is of Kirkwall,” Cadash said, sighing. “His every second thought is of Hawke. One way or another, he’s leaving, and soon.”

    “He always changes the subject when I bring it up,” Cassandra said. “But I know.”

    “You’ll miss him,” Cadash said, smiling.

    “I...will,” Cassandra said.

    They leaned companionably in the shade, nodding occasionally to passing soldiers and laborers.

    “I suppose we should be grateful for Sera, at least,” Cassandra said. “I think this has really become home for her.”

    Cadash laughed. “I’ve hardly seen her since she got together with Dagna. But yes.”

    “Dagna?” Cassandra looked startled. “When did this happen?”

    “Maybe a week after the fight with Corypheus? I’ve been avoiding the Undercroft for about a month and a half, so that sounds about right.”

    “Why would that keep you from the Undercroft?”

    “Because that’s where Dagna is. With Sera. Very...explicitly.”

    “They don’t. Why would they...don’t they have beds?”

    “Sure. But that’s where Dagna’s tools are. And she’s very...creative.”

    “No, stop,” Cassandra said. “I can’t hear anymore.”

    “Haven’t you ever…? I mean, one time Blackwall took me up in the loft of the barn…”

    “By Andraste, is there not a giant or a dragon somewhere that requires our attention?”

    “Nope, no place to be,” Cadash said. “We can just sit here and...talk about our feelings.”

    “Ugh,” Cassandra said. Cadash smiled.

    “Poor Harritt,” Cassandra said, after a while. “What does he say about all this?”

    “I think he and Dagna worked out some kind of schedule after the first time he walked in on them. Although I can only imagine the state of the workshop when arrives for his shift.”

    “He walked in on them? He saw them? Together?” Cassandra said. “Maker, he must have been scarlet.”  

    “From his mustache to the top of his head,” Cadash said.

    No one in the courtyard could remember ever seeing the Seeker or the Inquisitor laugh so hard, Cassandra with her head thrown back, Cadash doubled over as if sick with so much joy.

 

    Moonlight spilled over the mountains and into the fortress. Cadash sat in the shadows of the loft, head resting against a bale of hay, cradling a well-used bottle of wine in her lap.

    “Inquisitor?” called a voice from below, quiet, but still enough to cause wickering and soft lowing from the horses and other mounts in the neighboring stables. Cadash considered remaining silent and hoping he would go away, but she heard wood clattering, the thump of something metal striking the floor. An elk protested noisily. “Shit,” said the weary voice.

    “Up here, Varric,” Cadash called. She took a drink, squinting against the taste, spitting out some grit.

    “Which of your assembled vintages is that, Inquisitor?” Varric asked, stepping into view from the stairs.

    “Korenic, I think.” Cadash rubbed at the label with her thumb, squinting in the moonlight. “It tastes like...a pissed-off blackberry. With a hint of cim..cinmani...spice.”

    Varric stood over her. “How much Warden whiskey have you had, exactly?”

    “Dunno,” Cadash said, shrugging. She glared up at him and took another drink.

    Varric made a helpless gesture and walked over to the open space overlooking the stables.

    “Well,” he said. “It’s a nice night for it, I guess.”

    Cadash realized her hands were wringing the neck of the bottle and let them drop into her lap.

    “When are you leaving?” Cadash said. It sounded more accusatory than she had intended.

    “Who says I’m leaving?” Varric said, not looking at her.

    “Everyone,” Cadash said. “You have to go back to Kirkwall because it’s home. Or you have to chase after Hawke to find out what happened to her, and Merrill, and Bethany. Or maybe Bianca…”

    “Desa,” Varric said, looking at her finally. “Just...don’t.”

    Cadash hung her head. “Everyone’s leaving,” she said, after a moment.

    “Yeah,” Varric said. “People do that.”

    “Vivienne’s gone. Leliana’s gone. Dorian and the Iron Bull are leaving. You’re leaving, whatever you say. And Blackwall…” Cadash choked, took a pull from the bottle, gagged and spat.

    “Blackwall is coming back,” she said, staggering to her feet. “He has to..he has to come back. I din’t...I didn’t save this fucking world just to have him die doing some...some fucked-up Warden ritual bullshit.” She stood swaying next to Varric. She looked at the label in the moonlight. Warden Korenic it said. With a snarl, she threw the bottle as hard as she could. The shattering glass startled the horses and Varric grabbed her arm to keep her from spilling out of the loft. Cadash stood swaying, breathing heavily, before sinking down to sit at the edge of the loft, legs dangling over the yard.

    “Oh, Varric,” Cadash said. “What if I’ve killed him?”

    Varric eased himself down beside her on the edge.

    “Joining the Wardens is what he wanted,” Varric said. “Thom Rainier wasn’t a conscript. The original Blackwall recruited him, and he accepted.”

    “But it wasn’t his choice this time, was it?” Cadash said. “His choice was to die, to hang in Val Royeaux, without ever...and I took that from him, I brought him back to Skyhold, and sentenced him to join the Wardens. Because he...he lied to me.”

    “Is that why you chose the way you did?” Varric shook his head. “You could have chosen to have your Carta contacts break him out, right? Instead, you had Josephine call in favors and spend a lot of diplomatic capital to get him released to the Inquisition legitimately. Why is that?”

    “Because he wouldn’t have liked it,” Cadash said. She closed her eyes. “He wouldn’t have wanted me to...do something corrupt to save his life.”

    “As I recall, he wasn’t especially grateful that you saved his life at all,” Varric said.

    “No. He wasn’t.” Cadash rested her chin on her hands and looked down at the broken bottle glinting dully in the moonlight.

    “But you didn’t let him die,” Varric said. “You didn’t bring him back just to execute him yourself, or lock him away in Skyhold’s dungeon.”

    “No. I didn’t.”

    “So why not just let him go? Pardon him completely. I doubt anyone in the Inquisition would have objected.”

    Cadash rubbed at her face, shaking her head.

    “You’re ex-Carta, used to be a leg-breaker, a mercenary cutthroat, an extortionist,” Varric said. “Now you’re the Inquisitor, vanquisher of Corypheus, slayer of dragons, leader of the mightiest army in Thedas. Love made you save his life. What made you give it to the Wardens?”

    Cadash hung her head.

    “I wanted to do the right thing,” she said, quietly. “Blackwall...would have wanted me to do the right thing.” She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her jaw. “I never cared about the right thing before. He made me care. He made me want to be better.” She looked at Varric and knew her eyes must be shining with unshed tears and hated the wine and the Wardens for it. “I didn’t know doing the right thing would be so hard. That it could cost me so much.”

    They sat together quietly, legs dangling over empty space.

    “You’ve read The Tale of the Champion,” Varric said, quietly. “I know something about how much it can cost. I used to go drinking with Anders, swap stories with Isabela, joke with Fenris. I was there to see what it cost Hawke when ‘Bela abandoned us to the Qunari, when Anders went crazy and Fenris sided with the Templars and she had to…” He shook his head. “You know what happened to my brother, Bartrand?”

    “I know he stole the red lyrium idol from you,” Cadash said. “I know you and Hawke eventually recovered and destroyed it. Or most of it.” Varric nodded.

    “The red lyrium drove him insane,” he said. “Made him do some pretty horrible shit. In the end he was a sorry sight. Raving. Helpless.” Varric sighed. “I killed him. Hawke said it was a mercy, and after seeing what the Templars did, what they became, I’m not sure she’s wrong. But even though he was a crazy, treacherous, murderous asshole, he was my brother. And he’s not around to tell me whether or not what I did was right.”

    Cadash leaned her head against Varric’s shoulder, and he put his arm around her.

    “Blackwall’s alive,” Cadash said, quietly.

    “Blackwall’s alive,” Varric said. “And I think he would tell you that you did the right thing.”

    Cadash sighed and blinked sleepily at the mountains.  

    “Varric, tell me a story,” she said, closing her eyes.

    “As the Inquisitor commands,” Varric said. “Did I ever tell you about the time Hawke, Merill, and I stumbled across a village of Ferelden exiles that had taken to worshipping a demon-possessed dog?”

    Smiling, Cadash shook her head.

    “Well, we’d been on the trail of some Tevinter slavers who’d been preying on refugees, when a thunderstorm broke. We didn’t expect to find anyone out there in the wild with us, but then…”

    Varric’s voice draped over her like a warm blanket. Cadash slept.

  

    “Inquisitor, those riders from the West are arriving.”

    Cadash looked up from the map she was reviewing with Commander Cullen. The young guard stood in the doorway, shifting her feet nervously. Cadash glanced at the Commander.

    “Go ahead, Inquisitor,” Cullen said. “This matter will keep.”

    “It’s probably just merchants,” Cadash said, already moving toward the door. “Nothing to get excited about.”

    Cullen crossed his arms and smiled.

    “Better check it out, anyway,” Cadash said. “Right.” She followed the scout out the door.

    She was almost to the main doors when she thought to stop and look at the state of herself. She smoothed her overshirt, pulled some wrinkles out of her trousers. She pushed her hair out of her eyes, wishing she had thought to get it cut or styled or something. She’d meant to ask who did Harding’s hair. The guard watched her from the door, and Cadash shook her head and resumed walking.

    She was the Inquisitor. It was probably just a caravan of merchants. She cursed the dramatic reduction of her intelligence network. She’d never particularly cared for spies, but what she wouldn’t give for a raven bearing news from the Wardens. Then at least she’d know.

    Cadash composed herself. Slowed her steps. Tried to calm her thumping heart.

    She waited in the lower courtyard, facing the gate. She could see the riders crossing the bridge, lead by Inquisition cavalry. The closer they came, the more certain she was that it was just the expected convoy of resources from the Western Approach, mixed with a civilian merchant caravan taking advantage of the Inquisition soldiers for safety.

    The Inquisition riders shifted, and a rider emerged from behind them, wearing armor bearing the griffon emblem. A Warden.

    Blackwall.

    The Wardens had given him a more muted set of armor, gray and black like he’d been wearing when they first met. He wore the Song of the Marshes at his hip, a Warden shield on his back. The remnants of mountain frost glittered in his beard, melting in the presence of home.

    He dismounted a respectful distance away, patting his horse’s neck as he passed the reins to a trooper. When he looked her way, she saw that his eyes, though weary, also shined with new purpose, with a dream realized. Blackwall’s eyes met hers. He smiled.

    She ran to him and he caught her, spinning. Cadash pressed her lips to his, quickly, fiercely, before pushing the helmet from his head and kissing him deeply as she hooked her legs around his waist.

    “My lady Inquisitor,” he said, smiling.

    “My...Blackwall,” she said, stroking his cheeks.

    “Should I put you down?” he asked.

    “No,” she said. She wrapped a hand behind his neck, kissing him again. As she turned in his arms to point back toward the keep, she saw Cullen had followed her down to the courtyard. Behind him stood Josephine, as well as what seemed like half the Inquisition and some visiting dignitaries, watching her behave completely inappropriately to her station. She turned back toward Blackwall.

    “Are you sure?” he said.

    Cadash nodded.

    Grunting slightly as he adjusted her weight, Blackwall nodded to Cullen and Josephine.

    “Commander. Ambassador,” he said, with grim dignity.

    “Warden,” they said, bowing as he walked by.

    She didn’t make him carry her all the way up the stairs or through the main hall. But she didn’t let him linger for anyone else’s welcome.

    For a moment, she labored in the outskirts of a dream of caverns and catacombs, of Blackwall’s voice echoing in the dark, distorted and distant. But it was the stillness that woke her. She opened her eyes to an empty bed.

    Cadash sat up, alert. Reflected light chased shadows across her chambers as her eyes adjusted.

    “Did I wake you?” Blackwall said. He sat on her couch, bare to the waist, elbows on his knees.

    “No, I...were you talking to me? While I was sleeping?” Cadash rubbed her eyes.

    “Not to you, no,” Blackwall said. “I didn’t realize I was speaking aloud. I’m sorry.”

    Cadash wrapped the blanket over her shoulders, more for warmth than for modesty, and padded over to the couch. She squeezed his thigh as she sat down beside him.

    “They told me there would be dreams,” Blackwall said. “Even with the Blight ten years gone.” His calloused hand covered hers. “They’ll fade, eventually. Or come less often. But they won’t ever go away.”

    “What kind of dreams?” Cadash asked. Blackwall glanced at her, brows furrowed.

    “I can hear the darkspawn,” he said. “Deep under the earth. I thought maybe in Skyhold, so far above the world...but I can still hear them. When I’m asleep I hear them snarling...screaming in the dark. When I’m awake, it’s this dull presence of evil, in my mind. The Wardens - the other Wardens - didn’t say, but I think it’s the sound of the Blight coursing through me, tainting my blood.”

    Cadash stared at him, and Blackwall grunted, not quite a laugh.

    “You remember the dreamer, the First Warden, in the Fade,” he said. “That was a secret he gave up, that vial of darkspawn blood that brought him such comfort. I couldn’t even pretend to be surprised, when they told me. But then, these new Wardens don’t seem to care much for secrets.” He smiled grimly at her. “It feels right, somehow. To carry evil within me until I die. Until it kills me.”

    Cadash lifted his arm and snuggled against his side as he wrapped it around her. She listened to his breathing, to the sound of his heartbeat, and caressed a long scar cutting through the hair on his chest, part of a map of old wounds. His fingers stroked a shallow crease across her ribs in unthinkingly tender reciprocation. His body and hers, they understood each other.

    "Hey," she said, tilting his face down toward hers. His lips met hers gently, more hesitant than earlier, when she hadn’t given him time to think about his tainted blood or the Blight under the earth or anything other than how happy she was to see him. She pushed her tongue into his mouth, kissing him hungrily and deeply, and his arms enveloped her in response. The blanket fell away as she climbed onto his lap.

    Cadash pulled back, stroking his hair.

    “What do you do to me?” Blackwall breathed. She sighed into his mouth as he tightened his grip on her hips. She smiled at the tickle of his beard against her neck, and tangled her fingers in his thick, dark hair, holding on to him, tightly, with her hands, with her legs. Cadash shivered in his arms, feeling his strength across her back and shoulders.

    “Is m’lady cold?” Blackwall asked, and Cadash snorted, shaking her head at the presence of him, of his concern, of his body under her, worrying.  Cadash pulled his mouth to hers, pressing herself down on his lap, amazed that he couldn’t feel the warmth spreading through her from the feeling of his hands against her back as his tongue met hers, Blight forgotten, a strength there she had missed, wanted to savor. It wasn’t enough. It could never be enough.  

    Cadash gasped as his fingers moved between her legs, as if reading her thoughts. She braced herself against his chest, leaning into the sensation. As she began rocking her hips, she slid her hands to his breeches, plucking at the loose knot and pulling at the hem. She needed her fingers around him, needed to hear the sounds he made when she touched him.

    Blackwall made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a groan, and Cadash smiled into his chest, breathing deeply of the smell of him. He’d been gone so long it had faded from her pillows, begun to fade from memory. Now Blackwall, the unique scent of him, filled her senses even as his fingers slid inside of her, making her arch her back, clinging to the arm that held her to him.

    She pulled again at his pants, and lifted herself so Blackwall could push them off. Instead, he lifted her still further, and she exhaled sharply at the heat of his mouth. She buried her fingers in his hair as his lips pressed against her skin, wanting desperately for him to continue, but also wanting more: the sound of him, the warmth of him, the smell and the taste. With regret, she pushed his head away, and sat down on his lap. Blackwall’s hands clutched at her body hungrily as she rubbed against him. She reached down, rubbing against him through the fabric, making him groan. She hesitated, then ran her fingers over the slick warmth between her legs and reached up to touch Blackwall’s lips. Wordlessly he took her fingers in his mouth.

    “Take off your pants,” Cadash said. Blackwall nodded mutely.

    As she sank onto his cock, Blackwall pushed up to meet her, and she grabbed onto his shoulders, unable to stifle a happy sigh. She rocked on top of him, closing her eyes and pressing herself against his body, tucking her head into his chest again. She’d missed the sounds he made when he was inside her, his husky, quickened breathing, the soft grunts, the deeper groans. Her Warden. A true Warden, now. And with that the thought of his death intruded, sharp and desperate. A death she had taken from him, a death delayed. Not everyone survived joining the Grey Wardens. In a sense, no one did.

    “Blackwall,” she gasped, clutching at his body. Reaching for his face. “Blackwall, I…”

    He shushed her, his hand covering her mouth. He kept her rocking on top of him, pushing deep inside her, and she bit into the meat of his hand, his shush turning into a hiss. She could feel herself leaving marks on his shoulders. A sharp cry escaped through her teeth as she released his hand, hid her face in his chest hair. Was she crying? She wouldn’t touch her face to check. Blackwall muffled a shout at the feeling of her teeth on his chest.

    “Careful,” Blackwall muttered. “Don’t set me off.”

    She wanted nothing more.

    Blackwall protested wordlessly as she proceeded to do just that, with her teeth punishing his body as she moved her hips quickly, gripping him without and within, and there was nothing he could do but surrender. His body tensed, and the slap of contact between his body and hers grew louder and faster, Blackwall’s breathing increasingly rough just above her ear.

    He shuddered, moaning, and she clung to him with her thighs, shifting her weight to draw a few extra groans from him, feeling him twitch inside her. Cadash smiled, stroking his chest where she bruised him while Blackwall’s breath returned to normal.

    Without warning he wrapped his arms under her legs and stood up, hauling her up with him. The bed bounced under her body as Blackwall set her down heavily and sank to his knees.

    “Wait,” Cadash said, incredulous. “You can’t really…”

    She almost laughed before it broadened into a gasping cry. There’d been no time for this earlier, and the shock of his tongue after so long made her clench her thighs reflexively.

    “Maker, woman,” Blackwall said, pulling her legs apart. “You’ll murder me.”

    “If you can’t handle it…”

    “Oh, it’s like that, is it?”

    "Less talking, more-" Cadash lay her head back, toes curling. "More that."

    She thrust her fingers into his hair, holding on with both hands as a tremor started to build deep within her. She wanted to tell him to slow down, but she couldn’t form words, just his name, his names, all of his names. She kept thinking about him coming inside her. She pushed herself against Blackwall’s mouth, rolling her hips against the bed and then she felt his fingers inside of her and the combination of sound and sensation was almost too much.

    Cadash made a panting, desperate sound. She clenched her hands convulsively in Blackwall’s hair, grinding against his face, and he had to remove his fingers to hold onto her legs, which were hooked over his shoulders and trembling. She closed her eyes and let go of any semblance of control, let the feeling shatter her, a wave of noisy oblivion.

    Blackwall slowed with her as she regained herself, the gentle strokes of his tongue sending fresh shudders through her.

    “Okay,” Cadash said, weakly pushing his head away. “Okay, good, good.”

    He kissed the insides of her thighs, stroking her hips as he stood. Cadash sat up on her elbows as he stretched his back. His beard shined in the moonlight.  

    While he washed - Cadash thought the combination of his revealed identity and Dorian’s teasing had made him unnecessarily fastidious - she curled on the bed uncovered, having made an abortive effort to reach the fallen blanket without getting up. She watched the doorway to the washroom with an unsettled mixture of bliss and discontent. Impatience. She remembered the first time Blackwall slept in her bed, how bizarre it had felt to find herself wanting to be close and gentle. How, after she confided that she always hungered for grapes after sex, he brought some the next time he visited. That wasn’t what she hungered for now. It frustrated her not to know what she wanted. Once, it had been so easy. So simple.  

    Blackwall emerged, drying his face, and the sight of him - his body, his movements, the way he looked at her, his presence - provided an answer.

    “Can I get you anything?" Blackwall asked. "Water? Wine? Some kind of fruit?”

    “Come to bed,” Cadash said. “Just come to bed.”

    Blackwall picked up the blanket, drawing it over them both as he climbed into bed beside her, his arm draping around her, their bodies fitting together just so. Within moments, without meaning to do so, Cadash slept.

    Cadash woke in the gray pre-dawn light, and could tell without looking that Blackwall lay awake beside her. She stared out past the end of the bed, at the silhouette of the Frostbacks awaiting the sun.

    “When are you leaving?” she asked, wishing she hadn’t, knowing she couldn’t not.

    “The Wardens gave me two weeks, as a courtesy to you,” Blackwall said, quietly. “They were appreciative of the relics and artifacts I brought back. I doubt they would send anyone looking, if I took longer.”

    She stroked his chest, tracing the old familiar scar.

    “They need you,” she said.

    “You overestimate my importance.”

    “No,” Cadash said. “I saw the faces of the Wardens when you spoke at Adamant.” She propped herself up on her elbows. “You may be the only one who can restore the Wardens to what they were always meant to be. To make them better than what they were.”

    “They are trying,” Blackwall said, after a silence. “They mean to honor their history, but not be slaves to it. They’ve had enough of slaves, after Corypheus.” He met her gaze, and she saw sorrow and resolve. “I think I can help them find themselves. The Wardens can be the heroes the people need them to be.” He stroked her cheek and smiled. “I’ve got a fine example of a hero to show them.”

    “Hero? Me? I’m just a simple dry goods merchant who has had extraordinary bad luck,” Cadash said.

    “The only word that describes you in that sentence is ‘extraordinary’,” Blackwall said.

    “Well,” Cadash said, smoothing the hair on his face, “and maybe I had some kind of luck.”

    She rested her head on his chest, pressed herself tightly against his body.

    “They aren’t going to let me go by Blackwall,” he said. “I guess that was to be expected. But I told them as far as I’m concerned, Thom Rainier died during the Joining.”

    He was silent so long she almost thought he’d fallen back to sleep. She lifted her head to see him frowning at the ceiling, his bushy eyebrows pushed together.

    “So? What’s your name now, Rainwall?” Cadash said.

    “It’s just an idea,” he said. “It’s not written down anywhere. In the Warden records, I mean. I didn’t know if...if it would be all right. With you and your...your people.”

    Cadash sat up. “If what would be okay?”

    “I...” he began, and stopped again. “I thought maybe I could be Thom Cadash.”

    Cadash sat all the way upright, hovering over her lover until he looked her in the eye.

    “Warden,” she said. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

    “Maker’s balls,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

    “Shut up, yes,” Cadash said, laughing. “Yes, the answer is yes.”

    “Oh,” Thom said. “I...are you sure? I know I’ve done nothing to deserve…”

    “Shut up,” she said again, climbing on top of him. She kissed him. “You stupid, beautiful, brooding, noble, big-hearted bear of a man. Shut up. I love you. Shut up.”

    The Warden, her Warden, stared up at her in wonder, and Cadash thought, _So this is what it feels like._

    “I love you too, Desa Cadash,” he said.

    “Warden Cadash,” she said. “I like the sound of it. And people will be constantly surprised that you’re so tall.”

    The dawn broke over the mountains, scattering sparkling light on the snowy peaks and in through the stained-glass windows of Skyhold, but neither the Inquisitor nor her Warden noticed.


End file.
